Redeeming Love
by ferain1832
Summary: The everyday lives of the Amis, seen through a variety of Christmas-related one shots. Complete.
1. Mistletoe (Grantaire, Enjolras)

_Wishing you a good, holy year and paradise at the end of your days_.

In Toulouse, where Grantaire was from, those were the words spoken at the stroke of midnight, with an offering of mistletoe and a kiss. In England they just kissed, which Grantaire thought a shame - the words were good, if only they would work, which they never quite did.

The kissing, too, was never quite as holy and sainted as the formula would have you believe. Sometimes he had to suffer aunts, sometimes baby cousins. There were years when he was luckier and his target was both his age and relatively pretty, but still the kiss failed to deliver. A smack of lips, a fiery explosion inside his chest and there! Gone, leaving only a fleeting sensation of warmth.

The custom was upheld in Paris too, but Grantaire had moved away from airy kisses and expressions of goodwill. Many times he had told himself off for still being fond of that silliness. What was the point? A minute of happiness did not outweigh the months of misery that followed.

And yet, as he sat in the Musain on that frosty morning of the 31st, Grantaire was twirling a few leaves and berries in his pocket. He didn't quite know why. Perhaps he just missed the weight of a paintbrush in his fingers.

Enjolras was already there, his cheeks sweetly reddened from the cold outside, actually laughing with Courfeyrac and Joly who seemed determined not to let him work that day. Grantaire watched, unable to look away, gazing at the blue eyes glinting with pleasure, the lips extended in a charming smile, his whole face lit up from underneath like a delicate paper lantern.

Normally Enjolras shone, just then he was radiant. Grantaire watched, the mistletoe berries crushed between his fingers, the intense warmth that every past kiss had given him now multiplied into one transcendent feeling.

Perhaps, a thought flew across his brain, it was Enjolras that would bring him paradise at the end of his days. But before he could even contemplate kissing him the idea vanished, evaporated in the paradise of today.

A minute of happiness was only not enough when the happiness was not complete.


	2. Hot Chocolate (Combeferre, Enjolras)

"Enjolras, I beg you."

"No."

Combeferre stood up in a rapid, exasperated motion. "Enjolras, you are ill."

"I am not."

The voice was in itself a contradiction to the words it uttered: weak, rasping, exhausted. The face, too, was pale, weary, sweat covering the forehead. For the first time since their friendship had started Enjolras was properly ill and Combeferre was not about to let him forget that.

"Enjolras, whether you want it or not," he began, "you are seriously ill, you have a fever, I've spent the whole of last night putting a wet cloth on your forehead because you were tossing and moaning - "

"And I am very grateful to you for that," Enjolras said faintly, trying to prop up the pillows higher, "but now I must continue with my work."

"You shall not."

"I've arranged to see Bousquet at three. He's going back tonight. It cannot wait."

Combeferre let out a bitter laugh. "See Bousquet? You've spent the whole morning in bed. I'd be surprised if you can walk down the stairs without collapsing."

Enjolras frowned. "I don't care," he announced. "If our discussion goes well, as I expect it would, it'll gain us dozens of men in Lyon, men that have links in Paris too, men that will join us when the time comes - "

"Enjolras," Combeferre said in desperation, "it even hurts you to talk. What kind of discussion do you expect to have with him? And what impression will you make?"

"No matter," Enjolras announced with a weak shake of the head. "I'm conserving my strength. I'll be fine when I talk to him, you'll see. I'm made of stronger stuff."

"Enjolras, I won't let you."

Enjolras's blue eyes glinted in a way that made Combeferre draw back. It was the same expression that made him afraid, both of his friend and for him. It was cold, cold in eyes that knew how to be warm.

"Combeferre," Enjolras said softly, his delicate fingers pressed tight together on top of the blanket, "in the end, I don't think that will make a difference."

The words hurt more than Combeferre expected them to. "If nothing more," he said, quietly but firmly, "I am your doctor."

Enjolras only raised an eyebrow. "Can it really be that my health is more important to you than the revolution?"

And peering into his serious face, Combeferre realised that the question was being asked in earnest.

His anger gone, he took Enjolras's unnaturally hot hands, holding them between his own.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," Combeferre whispered, "I may be a mere sentimental fool but Enjolras the man matters to me more than Enjolras the priest of the revolution."

Looking once more into Enjolras's eyes, Combeferre noticed they were no longer electric blue but a softer hue, like the solemn and sad shades of the sea.

"If it was me," he said, knowing he was putting his head on the scaffold, "what would you have said?"

Enjolras considered him for a long time before answering. "If you would have insisted," he said quietly, "I would have let you go. Simply because I trust you to know your own strength."

"But - "

"I'm not a child, Combeferre," Enjolras said with a gentle smile. "I know what I'm capable of. If I say I can go, it means that I can. Do not be unjust to me."

Combeferre sighed. "Then you shall dress warmly," he said at last. "And I shall come with you every step of the way."

"By all means."

"And you shall have something to eat right now."

Enjolras made a grimace. "It hurts to swallow."

His friend may have just asserted he was not a child but Combeferre knew of one sure way to please him.

"I can't imagine hot chocolate will be that hard to consume."

Sure enough, Enjolras's eyes lit up in the most charming way.


	3. Snow (Prouvaire)

"_In pace, in idipsum, dormiam et requiescam_…"

Jehan Prouvaire dutifully recited the hymn, then slid into bed. All around him, a dozen boys were doing the same, some with real fervor, the majority as if they were reading a passage from Euclid's _Elements_. Jehan sighed and tried to fall asleep.

If he was to be entirely honest with himself, it wasn't as if his own faith was wondrous lately. As a child, Jehan believed wholeheartedly. A student at the _petit séminaire _near Nantes since he was nine or ten, he had loved the entire affair. The beautiful hymns, the light filtering through the stained glass windows, the musky smell of candles, the echoes of his feet on the cold flagstones, the beautiful sentiment of the whole thing, the promises of love and peace and everlasting life for each and every one, the thunder and the glory, the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the good….

For five whole years, the _seminaire _had been his entire world. The strict monks became his fathers, the nuns in a neighboring convent were his absent mothers, and he had nearly forgotten that there had been something outside the ancient walls of the monastery. He loved the apple tree that grew in the garden and the butterflies that flitted around the rosemary bushes in the summer, he spent his whole recreation time gazing at the clouds on the blue sky above, yet he never wondered whether there was more of it outside. What he had was quite enough.

Half a year ago, just after his fifteenth birthday, Jehan had his first glimpse of the beyond when he fell ill with pneumonia. The local doctor gave up on him so they sent him home, apparently for the last time. Really, Jehan thought, they didn't give him enough credit. He could put up quite a fight when it was needed.

It was when he was convalescing, out in their park for the first time, that he discovered violets. He was just sitting on the warm grass, breathing in the saturated air, and when he looked down he saw them, three perfect bright little multi-petaled things, so bold yet timid peeking out of their leaves, so lovely and unique that their colour could only be described by their name.

And then, Jehan began to wonder why God didn't want these dainty little beauties all over the gardens of the world. Was it just to make one appreciate them more? But then, the monks never left the walls of the monastery. They would never see neither the violets nor the pine trees nor the sea nor that strange animal the books called a rhinoceros, they wouldn't witness even a fraction of the world's beauty and yet God wanted them to remain between four walls.

When he returned, Jehan saw the _seminaire _with new eyes. Only now did he notice that the sermons that once left him transported were the same every week. Only now did he realise that the bishop's hat was a little silly and the crosier too extravagant for a man of modesty. Only now did he begin to resent the monks forcing him to use the right hand to write instead of the left. And that eternal conflict of Catholic against Protestant now perplexed him - did it matter, after all, which way one crossed himself?

The rules and the rituals and the regulations began to frustrate him. Did it matter that he put a beautiful daisy into his button hole? Was it really a sin to read such eye-opening poetry? And wouldn't it be so much more fun if there really was a goddess in every blade of grass?

Jehan turned from one side to the other until it was almost midnight. Then, unable to bear it, he got up and sat at the wide windowsill, his nose against the glass, wishing he could find some answer, some sign…

Whatever there was outside the window, it was dark and cold and miserable and Prouvaire shivered in his thin nightgown, suddenly afraid of it, afraid of the unknown and the different and the consequences that would bring.

A glint of white caught his eyes.

Then, like in a fairytale, silently, without a moment's notice, soft flakes of white danced a leisurely waltz across the black ballroom floor. And instantly, Jehan knew that when his education at the _seminaire _was finished, he would write his father a passionate letter explaining everything that passed through his mind at that single moment.

Perhaps he wouldn't understand, perhaps he would throw him out into the dark, yet Jehan knew of another type of wonderful flower that could make it all right.

The snowdrop, shy yet intrepid, rising out of the dead ground and towards the light.


	4. Candy Canes (Enjolras, Combeferre)

Enjolras put aside his papers and turned his chair to face Combeferre. To be sure he was buried in work, yet his friend didn't often have free time to spare. The medical school was not for slackers.

"What are you reading?"

Combeferre looked up with a smile.

"Let me guess," Enjolras intervened. "_A Short History of Moths? _Newton's _Mathematica_?"

The smile turned into a chuckle. "Neither," Combeferre said, moving his own chair closer to Enjolras and the fire. "I was relaxing with a treatise on the historical origins of various desserts."

It was just like Combeferre. "Any useful findings?"

"Nothing useful to the revolution, I'm afraid," Combeferre smiled. "I do rather like this story, however, on the origin of those sugar canes they give children on Christmas. Apparently, they were first given out by a choirmaster in Cologne, to keep them quiet during the long service."

"How charming of him," Enjolras said. Something of the sort would have made those terrible years a little lighter, when he himself had been forced into the local church choir.

"Charming and pedagogical," Combeferre said. "The authorities naturally hated the idea."

"They always do."

"So he told the children and the authorities, that the canes represent a shepherd's crook, white like the pure and sinless Shepherd, while the red is a reminder of the blood He had shed," Combeferre said. "The kids are happy and educated, the authorities are pleased, three birds in one stone."

"Resourceful," Enjolras mused. "Do you think they have them in America?"

"Doubt it. Why?"

Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. "I've been reading about America. I like that country. A revolution even before France, that has to count for something."

"Learn English and we'll go to visit," Combeferre laughed.

"I've been meaning to," Enjolras said earnestly. "Giraud has some liberal contacts in England I'd like to correspond with."

"You can rely on my help."

"Well," Enjolras laughed, "since we're talking about that, what would they call _bonbons _in America?"

"_Candy_, I suppose," Combeferre replied after a moment's thought.

"Candy," Enjolras repeated, taking care to replicate the strange A. "That's easy to remember."

"But in England they would say _sweets_."

"Sweets? That's harder."

"Not quite like that," Combeferre instructed, looking quite in his element. "A bit less like _suites _and more emphasis on the W."

"How am I supposed to pronounce a letter that doesn't exist in our language?"

"You should improvise," Combeferre smiled. "Say V but put your lips as if you're about to kiss someone."

Enjolras laughed. "I don't need that letter anyway," he said after several failed attempts. "_Révolution _is the same word, just mangled up a little, so is _république, _and neither of these contain a single W."

"Yes," Combeferre admitted, looking sly, "but what about _world_?"

"Whatever does that mean?"

"_Monde_," Combeferre said. "That's an important word, isn't it?"

"It is."

And with a sigh, Enjolras tried again.

"That's much better," Combeferre said with a fond smile.


	5. Christmas Tree (Courfeyrac, Enjolras)

Courfeyrac would not easily forget that Christmas. One reason was immediate, the other he would only understand years later.

That particular one, in 1821, they spent in Baden-Baden. His father made full use of being _Monsieur le baron de Courfeyrac_, younger son of the late _Vicomte_, and what he didn't have in title he compensated with charm. Therefore, the de Courfeyrac family was welcomed in all kinds of circles, to the great satisfaction of his mother whose two passions were to travel and to play the socialite.

At Madame Stahl's soirée, there was a spectacle that Courfeyrac and his sisters had only ever read about. Near the fireplace in the drawing room there stood a magnificent pine tree, tall enough to almost touch the ceiling, all glittering with candles and beads and little angels blowing trumpets and apples and nuts and even glazed German biscuits shaped like hearts.

His eldest sister Pénélope, as was only natural at seventeen, occupied herself with trying to charm all the young men in the room and gave the spectacular tree only a brief _ah _of lukewarm surprise. Mélanie, however, three years younger and still very much Courfeyrac's companion in pranks, found it utterly delightful.

The room was filled with chatter and rustling of skirts and officers, so no one paid any attention to the children. Courfeyrac suddenly had an idea.

"Psst, Mimi," he whispered, "an apple or a biscuit?"

"What? No, Léon, don't!"

"It's for your benefit, silly."

"Come straight back here," she hissed, "Mama will be ever so angry!"

But Courfeyrac was already gliding away, throwing charming cherubic smiles to ladies around him. He had learnt a while ago that children who smiled and laughed at adult's jokes and allowed themselves to be petted found life to be so much more pleasant than those that did not.

He circled the tree, deliberating. An apple would certainly not fit in his jacket pocket, but neither would it crumble and leave incriminating traces…

His train of thought was cut off when, bumping into something, Courfeyrac was nearly sent flying onto the shining floor.

Courfeyrac turned around and saw another boy, perhaps a year older, blond enough to make Courfeyrac attempt to gather together all the German he knew for an apology.

"Pardon me," the boy suddenly said in perfect French, to Courfeyrac's great relief.

"It's terribly decent of you to speak French," he said.

The boy raised an eyebrow. "I'm as French as you are," he said. "We're here for my aunt's health."

Courfeyrac laughed. "It's a pleasure," he said. "German boys are hardly good company. They're too straight faced for any proper fun."

The boy only shrugged his shoulders. "Some Frenchmen aren't the best company either," he said, with a strange glint in his blue eyes, "not in the real world. This room is a prime example."

And, with a polite nod, he disappeared into the crowd.

"Wait," Courfeyrac called out, "whatever do you mean?"

He had asked himself that same question many times since and the answer became clearer the older he grew. About seven years later, after Paris, after the riots, after the epidemics, Courfeyrac met the blond once more, when an explanation was no longer needed.


	6. Angel (Grantaire, Enjolras, Combeferre)

"I wish I could be of use to you," Grantaire said. "Can't I do something to help build the new France?"

Enjolras only smiled. "You are a brilliant painter and a terrible politician. Stick to your path."

Grantaire was used to this brutal honesty. He was grateful to it. Painful though it may have been to see his faults so exposed, it had helped him to put himself on the right path more than anything else could. Enjolras's approval was not easy to earn but once it came, Grantaire could be sure that he meant it.

"I'll stick to it," Grantaire said. "I'll try, at least. Yet I want our paths to be the same."

Enjolras looked up from his papers. They were alone in the Musain, sharing a table but on opposite sides.

"The same," Grantaire repeated, "not opposite."

"Don't you think," Enjolras said after a while, "that they have always been opposite and shall remain thus?"

"Why?" Grantaire whispered, crushed under a sudden cloud of despair. Need he ask why? Wasn't it clear that Enjolras had only ever taken pity on him? Shouldn't it have been obvious that he was no match for Enjolras, could offer him nothing? This was no fairy tale, the Beauty did not suddenly fall in love with the Beast and angels did not descend from the heavens to cast some light on the life of miserable sinners.

Suddenly he felt a slender hand grip his own.

He started upright. Enjolras was looking back at him, in his eyes a rare tenderness that sent shivers down his spine.

"Those that are similar to us in every way make wonderful friends," he said pensively. "Yet somehow, those that fit us best are those that are the opposite side of the same coin.

"Tell me then," Grantaire said, his voice trembling, "how do I fit you?"

"You give me what I lack."

"And what is that?"

"Warmth."

Combeferre had been standing at the door for some time, meaning to come in but not wishing to disturb. He took in the elated expression on Grantaire's anxious face and the soft gleam in Enjolras's eyes and turned back around. Anything he may have needed to say to Enjolras would not make his eyes light up in the same way.

In prevailing with an angel, Grantaire has robbed Combeferre of his.


	7. Pie (Combeferre, Enjolras)

That autumn was hard for both of them. Combeferre's medical studies were harder and more grueling than ever; Enjolras was glaring at Roman law, saying that the monarchy ought to learn from it or not set it; the poor were both struggling and unwilling to even listen to their speeches; the _gendarmes _tightened their grip on Paris to the point where Enjolras was nearly arrested trying to deliver an article to an underground newspaper, neither of them trusting post anymore.

Even today, the sky outside was so grey that it made the room seem twice as cold. Enjolras was bent over his books with gloomy determination. His normally rosy cheeks were now unhealthily pale and though Combeferre had 146 nerves to go over, he felt it was his duty to distract him a little.

He got up and walked over to Enjolras's table, his heart constricting strangely upon seeing him look up and smile. There was nothing on this earth that made him quite so happy as being the target of that rare, charming, warm, innocent smile.

"What are you reading?" he asked, peering above his shoulder.

"_Récueil général des lois et des arrêts, _for this year," Enjolras sighed. "Not the most heartening material, especially not for Republicans."

"Put it aside," Combeferre said, pressing his shoulder.

"And do what?"

Combeferre paused for a second. "We are going to bake," he announced at last. "My mother always said that baking has therapeutic effect on tired individuals."

Enjolras stared at him as if he had just said _Vive le roi._

"I am convinced that it'll do us both a great deal of good."

"Perhaps," Enjolras said uneasily, "but I've never baked anything in my life and anyway, we both have so much - "

"You shall be my assistant," Combeferre cut him off. "Come, get up and let's think of the ingredients."

Enjolras put aside his books, his expression both puzzled and amused. "What do you want to bake, then?"

"We have a surplus of apples," Combeferre said.

"The ones you bought from that unfortunate woman? There aren't many left."

"We don't need much," Combeferre shrugged. "Apple tart it is then."

A little later, once the landlady kindly permitted them to invade her oven, Combeferre was enjoying the sight of the normally immaculate Enjolras with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hands and trousers covered in flour and raw dough after his rather unsuccessful attempt to help.

"Can we put it in?" Enjolras asked, proudly surveying their handiwork. Combeferre was glad to note that the warmth of the preheating oven made colour return to his face.

"Almost," he said. "Just arrange the sliced apples on top."

Enjolras chuckled. "I think we're doing well," he said. "We could start a kitchen for the starving."

"We could," Combeferre agreed, reaching out from behind him to adjust a stray apple.

Standing so close to him, his arm wounding neatly around his rib, his mouth so close to the nape of his neck he could kiss it, Combeferre couldn't resist - didn't want to resist - letting that slice of apple drop onto the floor and instead pressing the warm body tightly against his own, praying that Enjolras could not feel his heart beating so fast it could burst, knowing perfectly well he did.

He felt Enjolras let out a deep breath, then his slender hand slid up to meet Combeferre's own. With a sigh of relief Combeferre closed his eyes, abandoning himself to the warmth and the bliss and the longing.

If he had less self-control, the outcome may have been different. As it was, he deposited a last gentle kiss on Enjolras's temple before stepping firmly away.

All that dawn could blind an unwary traveller.


	8. Tinsel (Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta)

"Come now, boys," Musichetta called out, "don't just sit there!"

"Never fear, my love," Joly said, as cheerfully as usual despite that sore throat which he feared may have been a primary sign of tonsillitis. "I shall arrange your little porcelain angels beautifully out of range of Bossuet's elbows."

Bossuet laughed. "I assure you," he said, getting up vigorously, "there's no need for that. I've been exceptionally lucky this week."

Musichetta eyed him with suspicion. "You said that last time, then _bam! _and my most beloved vase is gone."

Bossuet sighed. "You don't give me enough credit, my darling."

"Cheer up, Eagle," Joly said, patting him on the back. "If she kicks you out, you won't have to go to Mass with her."

Bossuet made a grimace. "Can't we get out of it somehow?" he whispered. "I saw Courfeyrac earlier. He had a mysterious look on his face."

"Mysterious looks bode well," Joly agreed. "And Grantaire was in a good mood this morning too. He was saying something about angels and being uplifted and such."

"None of that," Musichetta interceded, one hand on her hip, a bundle of tinsel in another. "A bit of Mass will do wonders for the souls of two miserable sinners like yourselves."

Joly pulled at a bit of tinsel, unravelling it until it was in a silvery heat on the floor, glittering with candlelight. He picked it up and looped it around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"How do you think I will enjoy a place where I cannot kiss you?"

Musichetta's dark eyes gleamed. "Do it now then," she whispered playfully, "while you still have the chance."

It was a good few minutes before they turned back to Bossuet, Joly feeling a little guilty. He shouldn't have bothered. Bossuet was watching them with a satisfied smirk, curled up in an armchair, biting into a particularly beautiful specimen of Musichetta's _madeleines_.


	9. Ice Skating (Enjolras, Grantaire)

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course."

Enjolras had decided that it was a good idea and once decided, he would not easily swerve from his path. Though his life after the revolution was just as busy as before, Enjolras took Grantaire's recovery very seriously. He had learnt from the mistakes of the past; he had understood that Grantaire needed help and encouragement, not just to be left to his own devices.

Combeferre had insisted that Grantaire must do regular exercise to help restore his health after years of heavy drinking. Enjolras offered him to practice fencing and was met with a terrified look, later articulated as _What if I accidentally wound you? _Enjolras did not insist. Horse riding was good fun but hard to do in Paris, boxing he decided to leave for Bahorel. After further thought, Enjolras remembered that as a child, he enjoyed ice skating. And so here they were, late on a Sunday afternoon, by the side of the lake in the Bois de Boulogne.

"But I've never done it before," Grantaire said, looking uneasily at the skates in his hands.

"I'll teach you," Enjolras said, demonstrating how to put them on. He watched as Grantaire fumbled with the straps then leant down to help him. The look Grantaire gave him, grateful, awkward and adoring at the same time, made him feel slightly warmer despite the sub-zero cold.

"Hold on to me," he said, offering his arm, "and we'll try to walk."

The sun was setting and the clear surface of the lake was illuminated by its fading orange rays. The breath they exhaled hung in the air like chunks of steam, the same steam that as Combeferre reported was about to power them through to civilization…

Grantaire's firm grip on his arm stopped Enjolras from floating away into thoughts of the future.

"Now let's get moving," he said gently, noticing the uneasiness on Grantaire's face.

Ten seconds later Grantaire was in a heap on the ice, dragging Enjolras down with him to collapse in only a marginally more graceful manner beside him.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire exclaimed, his eyes suddenly filled with terror, "I - "

Enjolras only laughed in return. His lungs filled with exhilarating happiness, partly the fresh evening air, partly something new and different that he could not quite pinpoint.

"Don't worry," he said. "Falling is nothing, so long as you always get up."

Grantaire smiled, a genuine, deep smile that reached into the darkest recesses of his eyes and enlivened even the most cheerless of its depths. He took Enjolras's hands in his and though both were wearing gloves a shiver ran through Enjolras's body, straight to the heart.

"And you aren't hurt?" Grantaire whispered.

"Not at all."

In fact, he had rarely felt better, or more content, in his life.


	10. Frost (Grantaire)

Grantaire had fallen several times on his way back from lycée. The streets were icy and his gait was unsteady, this time not because of those few bottle of wine he and an acquaintance sneaked out of this acquaintance's father's cellar. He had woken up with a terrible fever and a headache that almost made his skull split in two like a peach stone, yet his father insisted he went to lessons regardless.

"My dear," his mother had said with some hesitation, "perhaps it's best if we let him- "

"Not at all, madam," his father said gruffly. "You are just encouraging the boy's deplorable habit of skipping his lessons. I've no doubt he is faking it."

After the third lesson the teacher, in a surprisingly mellow mood that day, took pity on Grantaire's incoherent attempts to translate a passage from Livy and allowed him to go home.

Naturally, Grantaire grumbled to himself, his dearest Papa will never believe him. _What did I tell you, madam? _he'd say. _The boy is an incorrigible liar. He has tricked his teachers in the same way he tricked you. _

He has heard the same thing perhaps a thousand times, one more would hardly hurt any more than the previous ones. Right now, all he wanted was to get into bed, fall asleep and forget about the world for a few hours.

At last his street was in front of him and within a few minutes Grantaire was ringing the concierge, pushing past her when she opened the door. He knew she too would think he was skipping and he wasn't at all sure he could stand up straight long enough to listen to her sermons.

Having crawled up three flights of stairs and wanting to avoid Annette, their only servant girl, Grantaire pulled out his own key, shut the door quietly behind him, stumbled down the corridor and into his room, collapsing on his bed at last.

There was a deep layer of frost on the window, making the room seem even darker and more desolate than it was. Shivering, Grantaire huddled under his blanket, not bothering to undress. His thoughts were becoming muddier and more irrational by the second. What if he was dying of some horrid disease? It'd serve them right, he thought, then they'd know that he was telling the truth for once…

What did it even matter? He was so tired. Tired of being ignored, shoved into a corner, considered a failure because he could only retell Greek myths and draw decent pictures, seen as a liar and a no-good, tired of feeling alone and unwanted and useless.

His hands still shook as he lit a candle. Its light made the icicles on the window sparkle and wink with a surprisingly friendly look.

Leaning back on his pillow, Grantaire began to dream of life as he wanted it. His feverish imagination painted one image after the other: Paris with its tall buildings and crowds and high life, ballrooms, theaters, operas, cafés, smiling women, laughter of friends, full glasses, freedom to do and read and paint whatever he wanted…

He must have been really ill, because soon all that faded away and suddenly Grantaire saw an ethereal figure emerging from the glittering frost. Whatever it was, it looked awfully like an angel. It floated closer to his bed and settled behind the candle on his bedside table. Grantaire gazed at it, transfixed with wonder, the outside world melting before the majesty and grace of that creature.

Really, he could face it all if only he had a guardian angel by his side.


	11. Eggnog (Amis)

The Friends of the ABC were to have a meeting that Sunday evening and the Musain was slowly filling up. At a quarter to eight, only Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were missing. The already present lieutenants were passing the time with raucous conversation.

"You know," Prouvaire was saying, "I'm having terrible cravings."

"For what?" Bahorel laughed. "If it's that pretty edition of Agrippa d'Aubigné, I can't see why you cannot simply run back to the shop and get it. It was hardly expensive anyway."

"Ah," Prouvaire sighed, "that was a magnificent book. I'll be dreaming about that gorgeous Prussian blue cover, I have no doubt, and the golden lettering and the embossed violets… Ah, they drive me half mad with passion! I only wish I was friends with whoever its lucky buyer will be."

"Come on," Bossuet said sympathetically, "just go back now and get it now before someone else lays their filthy hands on it. We'll explain it to Enjolras somehow."

"I'd love to see you do that," Joly said, restraining a sneeze. "- _Where's Prouvaire? - Ah, don't worry, Enjolras, he's simply buying poetry. He'll be back in a second. Oh, of course the revolution is more important, he knows that perfectly well._"

"Enjolras reads poetry too," Prouvaire said. "I gave him William Blake to read and he really liked it, once he got a good dictionary and Combeferre to help him make sense of the English. He even asked me to translate it into French, especially _The French Revolution, London _and _Auguries of Innocence_. I'm working on it now."

Grantaire, previously lying on the table for all purposes dead to the world, now stirred at the mention of Enjolras.

"He'd like d'Aubigné too," he slurred. "The old chap has poems right up his alley."

And, sitting up straighter and projecting one arm in the air, he began to declaim:

"J'ai veu tant de fortes villes

Dont les clochers orguilleux

Percent la nuë et les cieux

De piramides subtiles,

La terreur de l'univers,

Braves de gendarmerie,

Superbes d'artillerie,

Furieuses en boulevers -"

Feuilly was sitting quietly in the corner, committing the names of all those poets to memory, so he could search for them in the _Bibliothèque royale, _if ever he finishes the latest order of fans.

He knew how hard it was to silence Grantaire once he got started, so he hurried to say to Prouvaire:

"What was that craving, then?"

"Eggnog," Prouvaire announced. "Good old eggnog, from my grandmother's recipe."

"_Corsé_, if possible," Bahorel winked.

"Absolutely!" Grantaire exclaimed. "Eggnog is vile and the only thing to make it bearable is lashes and lashes of cognac."

"Definitely not," Joly protested, "raw egg yolks make you horribly ill."

"They certainly do not!" Prouvaire flared up. "Are you suggesting that my grandmother - "

"In any case," Bossuet interceded, patting him on the back, "neither Enjolras nor Combeferre will approve of something that sounds so much like Corsica."

"Enjolras has long ago learnt to take nothing seriously if it happens in these premises," a quiet voice said right behind him.

Enjolras was standing right behind them, flanked by a bemused-looking Combeferre, and Courfeyrac who seemed to have difficulties stifling his laugher. The combination of dim lighting and loud conversation meant that no one had noticed them come in.

"That's where you're wrong, Enjolras," Prouvaire said earnestly. "We've been discussing matters of the utmost importance."

"So it seems," Combeferre said dryly.

Enjolras only smiled in response. He walked over to his place at the top of the table, in his usual graceful stride that looked far more like gliding, followed by Combeferre and Courfeyrac that sat down on either side.

"Now, if you don't mind," he said, "eggnog and poetry will have to wait. I have important news to tell you."


	12. Cider (Bahorel, Enjolras, Courfeyrac)

Bahorel has had a terrible morning.

He had been forced to go to a lecture, warned by Courfeyrac, himself not the most assiduous of students, that if he does not attend he will be struck off for the remainder of the year. Blondeau's soporific voice nearly transformed the lecture hall into Sleeping Beauty's castle, so Bahorel encouraged his mind to wander in the direction of the taverns in Saint Avoyé and onwards to the Rue Portefoin where many a pleasant hour could be spent in the company of his latest conquest.

Torture concluded, the four law students rested by the pillars of the Faculty, soaking in the rays of the April sun.

"My darling," Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, looping his arm through Enjolras's, despite the latter's bemused expression. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, Blondeau's fountain of wisdom has thankfully dried up and we are heading on a triumphal march around the city. You will grace us with your company, will you not?"

"By triumphal march you mean, of course...?"

There were crowds of students all around them and their leader wasn't about to compromise himself by speaking in anything but veiled metaphors.

"Naturally," Courfeyrac nodded. "Smelling the flowers, so to say."

"Paying particular attention to the potted plants in the taverns," Bahorel laughed.

"Where there are plenty of labourers!" Courfeyrac hastened to whisper, seeing a frown appear on Enjolras's fair forehead.

"With whom it is always best to talk at their level," Bossuet said, winking at Bahorel. "Using their own, erm, _customs_ and figures of speech."

"Absolutely," Enjolras nodded. "That is the first rule of rhetoric. Yet condescension is also crime, one must never consider them below oneself."

"My angel, you're preaching to the choir," Courfeyrac said. "Shall we start?"

"Very well."

"In that case," Bahorel said, hiding a smile, "I propose we move towards Les Halles. That _quartier_ will answer our every need."

He knew of an excellent tavern in that area which, according to Grantaire, had started serving beautiful Epégard cider only last week.


	13. Peppermint (Enjolras, Combeferre)

That entire afternoon, Enjolras couldn't quite concentrate on his work. He was normally very good at not giving things more than their due share of attention, yet the letter he had got in the morning was weighing heavily in his waistcoat pocket.

It was nothing very serious, merely a request from the housekeeper in the estate to come down for a few day and _"give orders for its future management._" His father's death two years ago had made Enjolras the sole heir of the estate, the house in Aix, the fortune his father had made and a partnership in the bank where said fortune was made. He had managed to escape from the latter, thankfully, and, intending to live and die in Paris, would have sold the house if it wasn't for his aunt. She had taken care of him instead of his mother, or was meant to be, so he had given her full use of both houses, glad that someone knowledgeable would take care of it all. Now she too was dead and the short conversation he had with the housekeeper two months ago after the funeral didn't seem to have sufficed.

For the past half hour, he could feel Combeferre's concerned glance sweep over him. At last, there was a scraping chair, quiet footsteps and a firm hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

Enjolras was silent for a moment, then:

"Combeferre, can you spare a few days?"

The concern on Combeferre's face deepened.

"If you can, I would be grateful if you came with me to Aix." He didn't quite know why, yet the thought of Combeferre being there made everything seem easier.

"You know I will," Combeferre said, pulling up his chair to sit next to him. "Now tell me what happened."

Enjolras explained and was glad to see relief on his friend's face.

"Wouldn't you like to go home for a little?" Combeferre said with a smile. "I'd love to see it. What is it like?"

That place was many things, Enjolras thought, but it wasn't _home_. Home was the Musain or the apartment he shared with Combeferre, not that empty house with its useless wealthy rooms and tall plane trees whose leaves shivered with every gust of wind.

"You'd like it," he said instead. "There's a forest nearby and several swamps, I nearly drowned in one when I was little."

Combeferre chuckled. "Fascinating _flora _and_ fauna, _I bet?"

Enjolras strained his memory. "Lots of bugs," he said, "shiny ones, with horns. Spotted butterflies. Plants, too. Peppermint, I think, and violets."

Now Combeferre laughed outright. "How endearingly specific," he said. "I'll be sure to investigate for myself."

Enjolras smiled too, yet the unease remained. He didn't want to go back. That house belonged to a different world, one he could not make sense of, one where even as a child he felt like an outsider. A charmed world, a golden bubble that had taught him nothing of what the real world was like.

On the way to Aix perhaps he'd try to explain it to Combeferre, though he knew already that just a few sentences would suffice. Even now, a single troubled look from him and instantly there was an arm around his shoulder, a chest to lean against and a hand stroking his hair, until all these troubles seemed as insignificant as they were.


	14. Gingerbread (Feuilly)

Feuilly was too young to know what the month was called, even that there was such a thing as a month. He only knew that whatever this time of the year may have been, it was fearfully cold and there were no apples in the orchards to pick when it was warm.

"Victor," he called out, pulling at an older boy's sleeve. "Let's hunt."

He had tagged along with a group of boys who, like him, didn't have anywhere to go. They had taught him a lot about living on the streets. He knew much less than them because he was still very small (he didn't know precisely how old he was but it didn't seem much) and because he was very new to this kind of life. He never seemed to have had any parents, like some of the other boys had once. But until only a little while ago he did have a home and a master and a mistress (who said many times they were not his _papa _and _mama_, though that was what the other children in the house called them). Only for some reason they no longer wanted him at home and one day Feuilly woke up alone on a cold street.

"We could hunt," Victor said. "Nothing else to do anyway."

On his very first day with the boys, Feuilly learnt that to hunt was to go around the city and see where some food could be had. Sometimes they looked in the garbage heaps near the rich people's homes (because the rich, Victor told him, were people with a lot of food that never ate it all), sometimes by the sea where there were nets full of fish (Victor called it a harbour), sometimes in the market where Feuilly was shown that if you were quiet and quick you could run off with something very delicious.

Feuilly had asked Victor why they couldn't just ask the fat women behind the counters if they could have something. Victor had laughed. No one gives if you ask, he said, and no one cares that you're hungry.

"Well," Victor said, "we'll separate. Roux, Béchamel, (pointing at each boy as he spoke), you'll go down to old Dupont and see if he has any leftover fish to spare. Toto, Davout, see if Louette (Victor's _sweetheart_) is kind today. Feuilly, you'd better come with me."

"Where are we going, Victor?" Feuilly asked, when the others ran off.

"Along the shops," Victor said, "then to the backs of the restaurants. They always throw away leftovers."

They walked, shivering, down the street. The shop windows glittered with such treasures that Feuilly almost forgot he was hungry.

"What's that, Victor?" he asked, pointing at a strange round ball painted blue with brown spots.

"That's a globe," Victor muttered, rubbing his hands. "It's to show how the world looks."

"But the world isn't blue, Victor."

"The sea is, stupid. It's all painted small, to fit, you understand?"

"Oh." Feuilly remembered the sea as it looked from where they sometimes got fish. Victor was right, there did seem lots of it. "And that, Victor?" (seeing a half circular thing with sticks and what looked like paper with a beautiful picture of some flowers.)

"That's a fan," Victor said gruffly. "It's what rich ladies have to make themselves cold."

"Why would they do that?" Feuilly thought it was cold enough.

"Because they're stupid like that."

"That's a nice picture though," Feuilly said, looking over his shoulder to catch another glimpse of it. "How did it get there?"

"Well, someone painted it, of course," Victor rolled his eyes.

"What's painting?"

But before Victor could answer, they both stopped short, a wonderful smell overwhelming them. It came from a tray that a man was holding just outside the bakery, with something that looked like a sliced bread loaf but smelt unlike anything that Feuilly has ever seen before.

"And that, kid," Victor sighed, "is _pain d'épices, _ginger bread. And now, we shall sing Christmas carols and make fools of ourselves because maybe the Lord is good and someone will give us five sous for our trouble."

Feuilly didn't know any Christmas carols. In fact, he didn't have a clue what a carol was and only a faint idea of Christmas. But to earn a slice of _that, _he was willing to do anything.


	15. Presents (ER, Courfeyrac)

"Capital R! Capital R! Wake up!"

The above was accompanied by vigorous shaking and was difficult to ignore. Grantaire stirred, rubbed his eyes and saw Courfeyrac.

"Good morning," Grantaire said pleasantly, patting around for his glass. He was incredibly thirsty and his head hurt quite a bit so -

"Afternoon, I would call it," said another voice, melodious enough to soothe his headache, yet immediately pricking his soul with: "Don't you think that sleeping is best done at home?"

And with another disapproving glance, Enjolras moved on to a nearby table, where Prouvaire was knitting something monstrous with a serene smile on his face.

"As usual," Grantaire muttered. "Orestes walks past, sees Pylades awakening, assumes he is is drunk and does not wait to check if it is so. And what if Pylades isn't drunk but instead yearns for the nectar of the gods?"

Courfeyrac patted him on the back. "He just wants what's best for you," he said. "Anyway, I'm here to inform you that we shall be exchanging presents on the 24th! Each of us will enrapture a certain other, as has been determined by my top hat."

"And who is my certain other?" Grantaire inquired cautiously.

Courfeyrac smirked, then leaned towards Grantaire's ear. "It's Enjolras."

Thunderstruck, Grantaire sat back in his chair. He, Grantaire, had to get Enjolras a present. Did Enjolras even engage in such frivolities? Was there anything he needed or wanted except universal peace, love and liberty? It was his one chance to recommend himself, Grantaire knew that. But what on earth did one get someone that had no need of anything earthly?

"Don't look so scared," Courfeyrac laughed. "Get him Rousseau's _Lettres sur la legislation de la Corse, _it's the only work that doesn't feature in the _Collected Works _that Combeferre gave him for his 21st. He has only just found out its existence and is yearning to read it."

Over the next two weeks, Grantaire agonised over the question. To be sure, Courfeyrac's suggestion would make an excellent present, but it would be Courfeyrac's present and not his. It would not say all that Grantaire wanted it to say. Then Enjolras could even take it as an insult. He, Grantaire, a cynical drunkard, giving the priest of the revolution a rare Rousseau?

What else could he give him? Stop drinking for a day or go distribute leaflets in the _Faubourg Saint-Antoine_? What difference would that make? Grantaire knew that he could not keep it up and to offer Enjolras this morsel was to laugh at him.

He even tried painting. A nice miniature of the storming of the Bastille, wouldn't that please him? The prison itself, looming black and sinister over the streets of Paris, was easy to do: he just pictured his old _lycée. _The landscape was not good enough, he was sure of it, but he tried to persuade him that another pair of eyes would disagree. Yet when it came to drawing the minuscule _sans-culottes, _Grantaire threw down the brush in despair.

He could not do it. However hard Grantaire tried to recreate the blaze of passion and the halo of light that surrounded his inspiration, he could not do it. So, giving up, he started hunting for that wretched Rousseau book, hoping at least not to disappoint there.

It took him several days but at last he found it, taking it off the hands of some drab but kind-looking old man in a bookshop where he was about to flog it. The shop keeper, seeing Grantaire's interest, offered ten francs for the yellowing little book. Grantaire, ready to pay anything for Enjolras and feeling sorry for the old man, gave him thirty and was done with it.

He put that old _assignat_ in as a bookmark. It meant nothing to him except as means of making Enjolras's eyes light up.


	16. Fireplace (Feuilly)

Feuilly's second winter on the streets was a tiny bit better than the first. He was a whole year older (Roux, taking a look at him, pronounced that he looked just like his brother did when he was four and Feuilly trusted his word), could run faster and knew where all the main points of the city were. The only problem was that he also felt a great deal hungrier than before.

Still, if hunger grew with age, Feuilly wasn't going to complain. All the boys he was with were older than him and Victor was twelve whole years old, how hungry must he have been? Really, it wasn't the hunger that he hated, it was the cold. Not the type of cold when the sun shines and your breath hangs in the air, then Feuilly grinned at the sun and forgot his fingers were turning purple.

No, it was the sort of cold that there was today. Dark, gloomy, rainy, yet not warm and heavy rain like in the summer when they splashed around in the puddles but slow icy sort of rain, thrown into their faces by the worst thing, the biting wind that chased away any kind of warmth there was under Feuilly's ragged little outfit.

"Oh, Roux," he said to the thin red-haired boy walking beside him, "let's run. We'll be a bit warmer, won't we?"

"And slip on the cobbles and crack our skulls open," Roux said gloomily. He jammed his fists in his pockets (one of them was already torn so the fist stuck out), pulled his cap lower on his forehead and patted Feuilly on the back. "Let's go by the houses. It's warmer there than on the boulevards?"

"Why?

Roux shrugged his bony shoulders. "Don't know. Just is."

They walked along the streets, past beautiful tall buildings with large windows that were covered by heavy curtains made from some material that Feuilly thought would be very nice to stroke. One of the windows had a crack between the curtains. The light fell on the pavement, making it glitter warmly, as if saying hello.

Feuilly paused by the windowsill and stood on tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the inside. He was just tall enough to see a big, well-lit room with green walls and a fireplace where flames twinkled so invitingly that Feuilly couldn't help but open his mouth in admiration.

"Come on," Roux hissed. "We'll catch it for loitering. Come on, I tell you!"

"Wait," Feuilly whispered, rubbing his sleeve on the glass where his breath made it misty. "Just look at it."

Roux scoffed. "Nothing to look at. Just rich folk's stuff. They'll just get us for wanting to rob them."

Feuilly gazed at the room, unable to take it in. So many beautiful things he had never seen before! That green furry thing on the floor, or that glistening glass thing like a bottle with something red inside, or that big black thing in the corner all shining, with black and white teeth peeking out from the middle…

"Say, Roux," he murmured, "why are people rich?"

"Don't know," Roux said. "Just the way it is. Some people have money and some people don't."

Someone came running into the room and Feuilly ducked down onto the pavement. It was a girl, a very clean one, with hair glistening like the wigs in the barber's shop. She had pink cheeks and Feuilly wondered why, surely she wasn't cold in that lovely room?

"Say, Roux, does that girl live there?"

"Sure she does."

"Why?"

"She's got parents and they've got money," Roux said, biting his thumb. "And food and beds to sleep in."

Feuilly wrapped his arms tight around himself against the wind. It all seemed so strange.

"Why don't we have that?"

"Because we're poor."

"Why are we poor?"

"Because we have no money."

"Why - "

"Quit it," Roux snapped. "Go ask the Emperor."

The Emperor, Feuilly knew, was a long way from here, in a big city called Paris. That city, everyone told him, was the most wonderful city in the world. Maybe in that wonderful city, things wouldn't be so strange? Feuilly determined that when he was as old as Roux or Victor, he would go and see for himself.


	17. Stockings (Courfeyrac, Enjolras)

Courfeyrac has had a very fun and very late night. In retribution, his head was hurting quite significantly the next morning. He'd like nothing more than to lie down on his couch with a nice cup of tea and sleep his retribution off but unfortunately this could not be arranged. Enjolras was occupying an armchair opposite that same couch, looking bright and fresh as usual, talking excitedly about ammunition.

"And if we strengthen the link with the ironmongers of Saint-Antoine, we'll be guaranteed some more supplies. You'll go and see Gaston today, then report the situation to me."

"Of course," Courfeyrac said with what he hoped was a cheerful smile. He expected no sympathy from Enjolras. To start with he doubted that their angelic leader has ever experienced the effects of overindulging in liquor. Then, really, it was his own fault. The revolution would hardly wait for drunken young men, Enjolras would say and he would be right.

"Let me write the address for you," Enjolras said, pulling out a pencil from his pocket. He likewise reached into another for paper, presumably found none and looked at Courfeyrac with a silent request.

"Look in the top drawer," Courfeyrac said, waving at his desk. While Enjolras's back was turned, he made the most of being able to massage his temples.

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, in an unusually startled voice.

"It's bound to be there," Courfeyrac moaned, unable to stop himself. He was feeling rather ill and -

"It isn't," Enjolras said, in the same funny tone, "unless you call that… "

And as he turned around, Courfeyrac had the immense and unbounded pleasure of seeing Enjolras holding one bright, scarlet, silk, risqué, distinctly belonging to a courtesan, delightful stocking.

"You…" Enjolras said, looking at the stocking like at an exotic and poisonous lizard, "I think…"

"Come on," Courfeyrac laughed. It would be kind to get up and relieve Enjolras of that charming object, yet the malaise mixed with glee persuaded him not to. "Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"I think," Enjolras tried again, "you ought to return it to its owner."

"Oh, I shall," Courfeyrac winked. "The owner is a very delightful - "

Enjolras cut him off with shake of the head. "Do what you do without telling me the details," he said. "That one here is quite enough."

He put the stocking back into the drawer, shut it resolutely, and, turning to Courfeyrac with a rare playful glint in his eyes:

"You know, Courfeyrac, at first I thought it was yours."

Courfeyrac laughed heartily, forgetting all about his headache. "That's going a bit far, _mon cher._"

"Now," Enjolras said, "do you have a kettle?"

It was Courfeyrac's turn to be taken aback. "In the cupboard, over in that room. Why?"

"What about a blanket?"

"Enjolras, you're not trying to make homemade ammunition, are you?"

"No," Enjolras said nonchalantly. "For reasons unknown to me, you look unwell. Therefore, I am doing what Combeferre normally advises, that being a cup of tea and plenty of warmth."

"Come here and let me kiss you," Courfeyrac said.


	18. Cookies and Milk (Amis)

"Well, I think they turned out really well," Prouvaire said, gazing proudly at the tin of various biscuits Joly was holding.

The two of them, plus Bossuet, had spent the whole afternoon in the Musain's kitchen. Prouvaire was sure that some freshly-baked biscuits, of various types and shapes, would only liven up the latest meeting of the Friends of the ABC, only two days before Christmas.

"I fear that they may be a little underbaked," Joly said with a frown. "Isn't raw dough dangerous?"

"Well," Bossuet laughed, "I did get awful stomach aches from it once but don't count me."

"They're perfect," Prouvaire said decisively. "Let's go."

And off they went to the back room to present their handiwork.

Enjolras, looking up from his conversation with Combeferre, looked suspiciously at the tin.

"We were waiting," he said. "Is Courfeyrac with you?"

"I haven't seen him all afternoon," Prouvaire said, opening the tin. "Take a biscuit while you're waiting! I recommend the _petits beurres, _the _palmiers _are a little bit doubtful."

Enjolras blinked.

"Take that one," Bossuet laughed, pointing at a particularly pretty one, with an uncanny resemblance to the French flag. "We made it especially for you."

Enjolras obediently took the biscuit, looking a little bemused.

"And this one is for you, Combeferre," Joly added, "that one which looks like a moth."

"None of them look like moths," Bahorel said sceptically, coming up from behind. "The most they look like is - "

"Don't be hateful, Bahorel," Prouvaire exclaimed. "They're absolutely beautiful. I'll even give you the skull and have the violet myself."

"What about me?" Grantaire called out, standing up from his table with a decisive but unsteady motion. "Have you got one in the shape of the green fairy? Or fair Helen, or dread Charybdis, or Dawn, fresh and rosy-fingered?"

"We were thinking a bottle for you, dear friend," Joly laughed.

"But there's one here," Prouvaire hurried to say, "it was meant to be an angel for decorating the room, but I'm sure it'll do just as well as any beautiful Greek lady you like."

"And for Feuilly," Bossuet said, "there's that long one, the one that says _Pologne_."

Feuilly put down his newspaper and smiled with gratitude. "I'll save it for later," he said.

"Don't _partition _it," Enjolras said quietly. "The rights of the Polish people must be preserved at least by allowing them their own biscuit. Take another one for later."

The door banged open, revealing Courfeyrac, grinning happily and covered with snow.

"I know I'm late," he said, before Enjolras could open his mouth. "I can explain, I promise."

He stepped in, taking off his top hat. Then he slowly started unbuttoning his coat, one button after another, carefully, as if -

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre drew out, "is it me, or did your coat just _meow_?"

And indeed, Courfeyrac pulled out a tiny black kitten that had been nestling against his chest, perfectly preserved against the cold. He placed it carefully on the table in front of Enjolras.

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras began, "do you - "

_Meow, _said the kitten, looking earnestly up at Enjolras.

"Ah, the darling thing!" Prouvaire exclaimed, scooping it up. "We shall call it Haidée, just like in Byron!"

"Chrysopeleia is the name you are looking for," Grantaire slurred, "since Courfeyrac clearly rescued the nymph from some dreadful plight."

"Poor thing," Joly sighed. "I'll ask Louison for some milk."

"You don't object, do you, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac asked with a sly grin. "I'm sure that it counts as an _abaissé._"

Enjolras sighed. "The only thing I object to," he said, "is you sabotaging our meeting by paying such undivided attention to Lucille."

"To whom?"

"Lucille," Enjolras said decisively. "This kitten has been taken into the care of the Patrie and to name it after the wife of a great patriot is only fitting."


	19. Santa (Feuilly)

Feuilly was returning home more exhausted than he has ever been in his life. The week before Christmas had seen double the usual amount of orders and walking down the street, Feuilly thought he could still see the colorful fans flutter before his eyes. Now, on the evening of what to the bourgeois was Christmas Eve, Feuilly wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep for the whole of next day.

Feuilly let out a wistful sigh. There was never much peace in the room on the fifth floor he called home. He had been lodging with a cabinet maker's family for nearly four years now and the amount of children in that family had steadily increased. He came because they asked a humane price for the corner of the room he occupied; he stayed because in the cold and desolate Paris, those people, poorer and more miserable than even himself, made him feel warm.

And even today, feeling ready to sleep through a second Waterloo, Feuilly did not chase away the little figures crowding around him when he finally stumbled through the door.

"M'sieur Feuilly," the twins shouted, bouncing excitedly on either side, "it's Christmas tomorrow!"

"Hush," the older Adele hissed, in vain. Excited 6-year-olds were not to be so easily pacified.

"It is Christmas," Feuilly said, collapsing on his bed. Little Madeleine tried to climb on his knees and he hoisted her up. "In Poland, they would begin feasting as soon as the first star appears."

"Where's Poland?" Madeleine asked, sucking her thumb.

"Far away from here," Feuilly sighed.

"It's a very sad country," Emile, one of the twins, announced. "Because when they're not feasting, they're being whipped by the Russians."

Feuilly laughed. It was good to see that his history lessons were filtering through in some form.

"But their Christmas is more fun than ours," the other exclaimed. "We don't feast here in France."

"They do things differently there," Feuilly said gently. There was no point telling them about the lavish celebrations of the rich, not on Christmas Eve.

"They don't have a fairy like we do," Adele said. "The fairy that comes and puts coins in children's shoes."

"She never comes here," Emile scoffed.

"Why not?" Madeleine pouted.

Adele shrugged her shoulders. "How do you expect her to come to such horrid children as you are?"

Later that night, to his deep surprise, Feuilly could not fall asleep. His exhausted brain kept returning to that conversation, to the children's excited faces, to little Madeleine's disappointed pout.

Was it fair, Feuilly thought, turning onto his side, that to these kids Christmas meant nothing more than one more slice of bread than usual and their father being at home? Was it right, that other children would wake up tomorrow to nurseries full of presents, a warm drawing room and old uncles pinching their cheeks, while in this room no such thing could have even been dreamt of? Just this once, could there not be a little miracle in their lives?

Feuilly sat up straight, shaking himself awake. From his earliest childhood, he had known that one had to arrange one's own miracles.

The whole of last week, what had made him slave harder than any of the other workers was the thought that if he completed all the orders, he would finally have enough money to buy his very own copy of _The Social Contract. _

Getting up silently, Feuilly reached underneath the pillow and pulled out the little bag where he kept his savings. He could always ask Enjolras to let him borrow the book just one more time.

There were no shoes to put the glittering coins into. The Christmas fairy would have to improvise.


	20. Sled (Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, ER)

"Courfeyrac," Bossuet said, "are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Not for you," Courfeyrac laughed, loud enough to make half the street turn around. The four of them, Bossuet, Joly, Courfeyrac and Grantaire, were on their way to Montmartre, Courfeyrac pulling behind him a sled. Heaps of snow had fallen the night before, neatly coinciding with Courfeyrac having found an abandoned sled.

"And dot for be either," Joly said. "I shall get pdeubodia in addition to by cold. But well, _gather ye rosebuds while ye bay._"

"Don't you worry, my dear Jolllly," Grantaire said, putting an arm around his shoulder, "there are plenty of good places around the hill. I admit I have a personal soft spot for our _Corinth_, not to mention the Musain, that glade of beauty and peace, yet Montmartre too has its Athens and Sparta and Elis. You can warm up there as well as anywhere."

"Is that why you're coming?" Courfeyrac winked.

"You insult me," Grantaire said. "I used to love sledding. All that air whooshing through your head, carrying away any nonsense you may have lurking there. It's as good as Leto, for its kind."

"Last time I went sledding," Bossuet laughed, "it nearly carried away my right leg."

"Let's hope you have better luck today," Joly said. "I wod't bear you breakidg your leg agaid. I thought it would dever heal."

Just as they approached the sloping street, Bossuet narrowly avoiding a collision with a small boy, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Bossuet turned around and saw Enjolras standing behind them, cheeks reddened by the cold despite him wearing that awful green-and-peach scarf Prouvaire knitted for his birthday.

"Good morning," Enjolras said. "Courfeyrac, what is that?"

"A sled, my dear Enjolras," Courfeyrac grinned. "I'm sure that Rousseau and his cousin often indulged in that pleasure."

"That matters little right now," Enjolras said, lowering his voice. "I've just been seeing certain people, to check how the ground lays, and I've been offered… additions to our stock."

"Additions that need to be conveyed to storage in a safe way?" Courfeyrac inquired.

"Precisely," Enjolras said, "and it needs to be done immediately. The _gendarmes _are suspicious of them and might raid any moment."

"What sort of stock?" Bossuet whispered.

"A few boxes of bullets. Too much to hide about oneself."

"Excuse me," Grantaire said. "I have an idea, if you don't mind."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "You? What is it?"

"Take this sled," Grantaire mumbled, looking at Enjolras's shoulder rather than his face, "pile up the boxes on it, get several crates of beer to mask them, get a _gamin_ to sit on top. No more complicated than Ulysses and the rams. People carry things like that all the time when it's icy."

Enjolras considered him for a minute, then briefly pressed his arm. "Is everyone else in favour?"

"Gradtaire and I will go to get the crates," Joly said. "Bossuet will drop theb and bullets ared't breakable."

Courfeyrac nodded. "Good plan, Grantaire."

"Then, to work," Enjolras concluded.

"Let's go," Courfeyrac said, patting Bossuet on the back. "Let's hope the snow isn't melted by tomorrow."

"We'll take him with us," Bossuet winked, nodding at Enjolras. "It'll be the best fun I've had in years."


	21. Snowman (Combeferre, Enjolras)

"It's so cold outside," Enjolras said, sitting down beside Combeferre. "And I don't normally say that."

Combeferre leaned forward to feel his hands, freezing despite the gloves he had been wearing. "Let's move to the fire," he said. "You don't want to fall ill."

Enjolras smiled. "You always worry about it and it never happens."

"True," Combeferre admitted. "You simply look too delicate to be in perfect health."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Certainly…"

He trailed off. There were more important things for Enjolras to worry about.

Yet Enjolras, ever perceptive, looked up. "What is it?"

Combeferre sighed. "People are fragile, Enjolras," he finally said. "Much more fragile than you think. In our day and age, it takes so little to kill them."

Enjolras looked into the fire, examining the dancing flames with a familiar otherworldly gaze, as if seeing deep into the clouds of the future. "Poverty and hunger and cold are powerful enemies," he said quietly. "Yet there will come a day when these are no more."

"It has not come yet," Combeferre whispered.

Enjolras looked sharply up. "Not yet. But it will come, one day, that time when all enemies shall be vanquished."

"I do not doubt that."

Now it was Enjolras that took his hand. "What then?"

"Yet in the meantime," Combeferre said, "the enemies survive. We do our best to help the poor, to herald that new age, yet for some it will be too late."

Enjolras looked back to the fire, in his eyes a terrible sadness. "There is only so much that mortals can do. If there was a God, he'd do the rest."

"And it isn't even that three-headed monster," Combeferre continued, "not always. Humans are so fragile, I tell you. Be it you or Bahorel, it matters little. Any moment, an illness might strike, the heart might stop, a cart might appear and crush your skull like a nut. There needs to be progress, Enjolras, so much of it. Right now, we are little more than snowmen, standing defenseless, swept aside or melted by the sun. If you catch a cold, you are already one foot in the grave."

"Surely not?"

"Absolutely," Combeferre said with a sad smile. "That cold may develop into something worse straight off, or weaken you until some other malady strikes, and from there the chances of survival are too small to be worthy of us. We must have progress, quicker than it is happening."

"There will be progress," Enjolras said. "I am sure of it. The nineteenth century will be great, I promise you. Everything is ready for it. There will be such progress as the world has never yet seen, in medicine as in any other field. There shall be struggle and pain and ignorance and hatred and death, yet at the end of it, the human race shall emerge triumphant."

"And we shall be happy?"

"Yes," Enjolras said with a quiet and blissful smile. "The nineteenth century will be great, but the twentieth shall be happy."


	22. Bells (Enjolras)

The tolling of the church bells still echoed in Enjolras's head, though the funeral was ended, the coffin buried and the congregation dispersed, leaving him standing alone beside his parents' grave.

The headstone was new, erected specifically to commemorate them both. His father had erected the elegant marble tomb nineteen years earlier for his mother, now he joined her inside, watched over by the grieving angel whose inclined head always reminded Enjolras of a drooping poppy.

_Here rests Jean-Antoine Enjolras, born 17th March 1771, died 26th July 1827, 56 years of age. Also his beloved wife Évéline, née de Villeneuve, born 13th September 1778, died 12th August 1808, 29 years of age. _

Fifty six times they had to ring the bell, abiding by the local custom, one for each year of age. Enjolras had envied his father for his lifespan. Born in the declining years of Old France, just about old enough to remember the glories of the American wars and the fame of Lafayette, then precisely the right age to be in Paris in the summer of 1789, a young law student, much like himself but in such illustrious times.

He had been on the right side, at the start, and many nights did Enjolras dream that he had exchanged places with him and it was he that sat on the windowsill of the Cordeliers Club, listening to the great patriots speak; he that breathed the same air as Danton, Marat, Desmoulins; he that witnessed the riots at the Bastille and Tuileries and Champ de Mars…

Enjolras sighed. It had all gone wrong for his father, right around the twenty-second bell. His beliefs, already floundering, could not withstand the events of 1793. He did not understand what Enjolras understood, that noble causes could not be blemished by blood. What had revolted and repelled his father, pushing him away from the values he had once upheld, only made Enjolras more convicted that the struggle had to be continued, until the the flagpole no longer needed to be propped up with corpses.

At his best, his father reminded him of Combeferre, only Combeferre did not sway with the tide. Combeferre knew that lives needed yet to be sacrificed if the new age was to be brought in, and he was as willing as Enjolras to lay down his own. Combeferre could weep over the dead as much as his father, as much as himself, yet he could see the glorious dawn that would rise over France as they fell. He understood what his father did not, that Enjolras did not glory in death nor swept over the corpses with an argument that the end justified the means. No, Enjolras and Combeferre both knew, that each one of them, the friend and the unwilling foe, would live again through those people from whose lives the burden will be lifted.

This was why, Enjolras thought, passing his fingers over the cold marble of the tomb, when his father threw him out, Combeferre took him in; where his father forced him to think of everyday life, Combeferre allowed him to look beyond; where his father evoked discomfort and tension and unwilling contempt, Combeferre could only make him feel warm and tranquil and understood.

This was, in the end, why Enjolras loved Combeferre and did not love his father.


	23. Carols (Enjolras)

One of Enjolras's worst childhood memories was the church choir. It was his aunt who first opened the door to that torture. Through one of her many networks - Enjolras neither knew nor wanted to know which one - she had heard of a vacancy in their local church, its previous occupant having died of measles, and decided that her nephew was just what was needed.

Enjolras hated every moment of it. The singing itself he did not mind so very much, not at the start. What made him despise Sundays was the attention it brought him. Their church was small and each person sitting on the front pews would stare and simper and on later visits would coo and pet his hair and pinch his cheeks and say that he looked "_simply angelic, darling!" _until Enjolras wanted either to fall through the floor or to run off into the fields and never come back.

And then, as he got a little older and understood a bit of the Latin that they were singing, he began to dislike the singing too. They never sang about the right things. Every carol they sang seemed to differ little from the rest. Over and over again they were told that the glorious Christ was born, that the angels sang his praises, that the Blessed Virgin was pure and virtuous, that there were shepherds and kings and stars and myrrh; they praised Christ for saving the people, yet, Enjolras wondered, have the people really been saved?

They would sing in the church and on the way home the beggars and the sullen workers and the bony women would still be there, as unsaved as they had always been. Even before Enjolras had began to doubt if there was a heaven, it seemed strange to him that Christ would guarantee forgiveness of sins and eternal life in heaven instead of letting the poor have one more loaf of bread every day.

Later, when his time in the choir was over and his _lycée_ years began, it became clear to Enjolras that the fault did not lie with Christ who may not have even existed at all. The fault lay with the congregation that listened to songs of gratitude and light and redemption but showed none of that outside the church. The fault lay with those that praised the Lord for his charity, meekness, altruism, yet did not see the suffering on their doorstep.

The fault, Enjolras came to realise, was in the very words:

_Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost._

Every Sunday, forced to come to church by his aunt, Enjolras whispered something else.

_Long live the people. _


	24. Chestnuts (Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Amis)

"Enjolras," Courfeyrac called out, "the meeting is now over and you cannot possibly object to us turning this temple of Revolution into a temporary kitchen."

Enjolras, as expected, was removing himself into a corner of the cafe where books and papers awaited him. "Why should I object?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "So long as you don't set the place on fire."

"No," Courfeyrac protested, taking him by the arm, "don't you touch those books. It's Christmas Eve, surely you know that?"

"I shall become aware of that later tonight at the gathering," Enjolras said. "Until then, there is work to be done."

Bahorel laughed. "When Zeus's golden scales hold roast chestnuts against work, I know which way Fate will incline for me."

"I shall observe you from this corner," Enjolras said decisively. He was about to sit down, paused, picked something up from the chair, then a moment later he was seated, a small black kitten nestled on his lap. "Lucile and I will be more than comfortable here."

Combeferre set aside his own book. "And I shall ensure that the Musain does not perish with the roasting of these chestnuts."

"Honestly, old fellow," Courfeyrac scoffed, "do you think I never roasted chestnuts in my life? One of my very first _amours _was terribly fond of them."

"That is so romantic," Prouvaire sighed. "I can picture it: the peaceful streets of Montpellier, the vigorous plane trees, the whisper of distant sea waves on the wind, the nymph's raven curls on your shoulder and the aroma of chestnuts…"

"She was a very light brunette, if I'm honest," Courfeyrac laughed, "but the scene was just as romantic as you tell it."

"I dislike chestnuts," Grantaire said gloomily, casting a resentful glance at Lucile who was purring in the sweetest manner, nearly obscured by Enjolras's pale fingers absently stroking her.

"Why on earth?" Bahorel exclaimed.

"They made me horribly ill once," Grantaire muttered. "That's what comes of consuming that which Circe no doubt fed her pig-men."

"Come on," Joly grinned, "even I am sure that there can be no harm in chestnuts. Well, that is, if you don't swallow a shard of their casing or - "

"That won't happen," Bossuet hurried to reassure him. "I have been relegated to a position as far away from them as possible so you have no reason to worry whatever."

Naturally, Bossuet ended up somehow scattering hot coals over the floor and nearly giving Enjolras third degree burns by offering him a chestnut just out of the fireplace, much to Combeferre's concern, but overall, Courfeyrac had every reason to be satisfied with their prelude to the evening's entertainment.


	25. Christmas Music (Enjolras, Amis)

It was a peaceful evening in the Café Musain. None but the lieutenants were present and their voices mingling together created a pleasant humming atmosphere that made Enjolras feel like he did on long summer days in Aix, sitting under an oak tree by the river with Rousseau, bees and dragonflies whirring around. Those details stuck in his memory because they were the only ones about life in Aix that had made him feel comfortable.

Comfortable, just as he felt on that cosy winter evening in the Musain. There was one difference though and it consisted in those humming forms around him. This time, they were human.

Enjolras has never had friends. It never bothered him, on the contrary, he was glad of it. Until he came to Paris, he thought he never needed them. Friends, to him, were those women his aunt called 'darling' to their faces and then gossiped about behind their back, the boys in his class that all had alliances and enmities that revolved around marbles and scuffles and insults, those people with whom one dined and went to the theatre and made small talk. Enjolras had nothing to say to those people. They thought him strange for not caring about girls and waistcoats and competitive sports, he thought _them _strange for not seeing the suffering right before their eyes. They had nothing to give him and he had no time to waste.

Combeferre sat beside him, talking to, or being talked at, by Courfeyrac.

"Excellent piece, I thought," Courfeyrac was saying. "You ought to have gone and seen it instead of staying in with your skeleton. Bones are dead but words are alive, my friend!"

"If I do not stay in with the skeleton," Combeferre retorted, "for some people both of these will be dead." And yet there was a note of regret in his voice; Enjolras knew that Combeferre had wanted to go to that play as much as Courfeyrac.

It was when he had met Combeferre that things suddenly changed. He had been struck down by a cart and a random man took him up to his apartment to bandage his bleeding arm. Enjolras could often form an impression of a man by a single look and his impression of this man was that he was different from the others.

A few days later, just as Enjolras was beginning to wonder how precisely he was going to manage after having been thrown out by his father, the man came back. He offered him to share his apartment, just like that, and had it been anyone else, Enjolras would have politely refused. Yet there had been something in Combeferre's face that made Enjolras trust him. Some kind of depth in his eyes made him feel that perhaps this man wanted something more.

"You'll come this Saturday," Courfeyrac was saying. "_Guillaume Tell _is on and we cannot miss it."

Combeferre turned to Enjolras. "Do we having anything going on that evening?"

"Nothing," Enjolras said. "Go and enjoy yourself."

"You will come too, won't you? You'll do well with a distraction."

"If you want."

It was Combeferre that made him realise what friendship really was. A friend was someone who truly cared about your happiness, who understood you, whose heart beat in time with yours.

"The overture is glorious," Prouvaire was saying. He picked up his flute from the table and started playing.

"Don't you spoil it for us!" Courfeyrac cried. "Play something else if you must."

"Fine," Prouvaire pouted. "I'll give you a beautiful Christmas song."

Enjolras has never had friends, yet sometimes he caught himself thinking that even should their part in the coming rebellion fail, they will have achieved something through this friendship alone.


End file.
